An Open Letter To The Tiny Dick Belonging To Donald Trump’s Election Loss Tantrum

An Open Letter To The Tiny Dick Belonging To Donald Trump’s Election Loss Tantrum

November 16th, 2020
To: President Tantrum Dick
From: The Desk of Multiverse Johnson

Dear Donald Trump’s Raging Weiner, 
First off, may I call you Tantrum? 
Second off, go stick your P up your own QAnon. 

We’ve had enough:
of the hate fibs
and the wrecking ball bluster

and the red ties tailor made at such ridiculous lengths
in order to cover up the kryptonite 
that is your stubby belly button sized dick

The past 4 years have taught us that any attempts at reasoning with you using
truth, logical decency, or sexy common sense are a waste of vocal cords and newsprint, so instead of trying to calm you down with some basic facts and deep breathing exercises, I’d like to spend the time that’s been allotted me here tonight making fun, Mr. Tantrum, of your dick

Because the Captain of The Tiny Hands Debate Club is doing his best to take the entire goddamn country down with him and has no intentions of gracefully admitting defeat anyway, and it seems to really irritate him when he thinks someone has publicly implied that science has probably already proven that he’s a non-recovering maniac, and he’s got a small dick.

So, this being a Flash Fiction reading, and thus containing length restrictions of its own, let’s consider this brief introduction buried and move into the following considerations. A few things I’ve Learned While Watching Donald Trump’s Tantrum Dick. 

Trump’s dick is the genital version of the Fermi Paradox. If obnoxious/ancestorially rich old dudes who father shitty children are presumed to have penises, where is his? Does he keep it locked up in a secret Chinese safety deposit box? Did he lose it on the golf course as his Country’s coronavirus rained fire? Has it secretly been cast to play the new Iron Man? Is it watching porn bloopers at Mar-a-Largo again? Is it off staring at a brief parade of VHS tapes on a bulky television set, waiting for Trump to join it in the soggy mess that used to be Hitler’s old bunker? 

The Possibilities used to have long hair and was less of a hermit back then and managed to hook up with the Multiverse that one night, at the old Catacombs underneath the Boulderado. The Multiverse was wearing a green T-shirt that said ‘Pin-Up’ and had recently attended a poetry reading at Penny Lane where Possibilities had read a poem that included a line about James Cahn losing a ping pong match in front of Owen Wilson. They both loved Bottle Rocket. They both fell for one another instantly. They were both drunk.  

Oddly enough, in this situation, The Where Is Trump’s Penis situation, not the Multiverse and Possibilities situation, Fermi’s Zoo Solution may also apply too.

But let’s go back to that bunker. I’m curious as hell about all of it, because I still love VCR’s. What kind of VHS movie is Trump’s Dick watching down there.

If I had to bet hard money on anything, I’d put my money on Krull.

Last night Emily Blunt was my dick’s spirit animal

Tonight its spirit animal is a half pint of whiskey, Holden Caufield, Blade Runner 2049,     and an episode of New Girl in which Jess does ‘finger guns’ at Nick.

Trump’s dick doesn’t have a spirit animal because that soulless fucker hates sentient creatures, including animals. The first president in over a hundred years not to have a goddamn dog, maybe. Because if anything’s going to take a shit in the middle of Lincoln’s bedroom, it’s gonna be Trump. Not some non-Trump being sentient non-verbal goddamn animal. Pets? Trump’s Penis Tantrum hates pets. Paying hush money to porn stars is the closest thing the scrunchy bastard has to a pet. 

Trump treated the Oval Office like it was his personal dildo, and now that his time there is coming to an end, he’s sore about it. Fuck, he’s sore about everything. Losing the election. Media reporting verbatim all the shitty things he does and says. He’s sore at Bela for cheating on Robert Pattinson. He’s sore at the weather when he wants to go golfing and it rains. He’s sore at things that don’t fit anymore, like his pants.

If you want to be sore about something, Mr. President’s Penis, be sore about this goddamn country song I heard on the radio today. Be soar about lazy cliches and the sluggish abuse of twangily sung words.

Paraphrasing the shitty country song I heard on the radio today:

You be my badminton 

I’ll be your shuttlecock

If you’ll be my Scorpion King

I’ll be that guy who digs The Rock

If you’ll be my holy water

I’ll be your vagina priest

If you’ll be my rigged election

I’ll be your ballot thief

If you put your dressing on the side

I’ll be your salad freak

And it just goes on like that. Like middle of the night diarrhea, Trump’s Dick Tantrums have been hard to ignore.

The selfish bastard.

It’s sodemy

It’s not sodem-you

So enough about you.

I’m going to write the shortest horror movie in the world

It’s called I Don’t Know What You Did Last Summer

It’s about a guy, having nothing to do with a series of low cut murders that are taking place in a town he’s never heard of, who sits at a table, reading old Criswel Predicts books, while eating breakfast cereal for a collection of minutes. Rubs his fingers through his thick stocking cap, calls in sick to work again, pops a couple xanax, rams the soundtrack for 2001: A Space Odyssey into the cd player, and crawls like a goddamned astronaut betrayed by a red eyed computer back into bed.

Written for the November 2020 FBomb zoom show reading

Published by: getinthecarhelen

Get in the car, Helen. Author of The Aftermath, etc., Beautiful Graveyards, Paper Thin, I Was Going To Use That, I See You Lewis, Love Does Stuff, The Night We Called Dennis, 8 Minutes Faster Than DJs, Snowboots, The Comic Book Plague (w/ Marcus If), Package Gigantis in the Deep Waffle Palace of Love.

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